


The Only Comfort

by sanguinity



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Coffee, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: On theHotspur,in the aftermath of Grimes's suicide, Bush tries to offer Hornblower a moment's comfort.





	The Only Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColebaltBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/gifts).



> For ColebaltBlue, who wanted Bush making Hornblower coffee.
> 
> Content warning for suicide.
> 
>    
> "Somehow there was comfort in coffee despite his misery; the only comfort in a black world." — _Hornblower in the West Indies_
> 
>  

Bush was a man of iron courage and no stranger to violent death, yet even Bush, responding to his captain's summons, drew up short at finding Death hanging from an iron hook in the captain's cabin. The body dangled, a caricature of humanity, twisting slackly with the roll of the ship. Its knees just brushed across the deck.

It took a moment for Bush to understand: the marines had left the captain's door unguarded during the night raid on the semaphore station and shore battery; Bush, left in charge of the _Hotspur,_ had not thought to make other arrangements for the security of the captain's cabin. And while everyone's attention had been away with the shore party, some buggering whoreson excuse of a hand had crept in, tied himself to the lantern hook, and swan-dived from the captain's cot. Leaving his loathsome, pox-bitten remains to be found by the captain.

The captain, who despite the successful action, had arrived back at the _Hotspur_ already in a tight knot of misery. 

The captain, who now looked so brittle as to be undone by a breath. 

_Grimes,_ Bush’s mind supplied an instant later, although the bloated visage in front of him was barely recognisable as the captain's steward. _Grimes,_ who had originally been detailed to the shore party, yet had not left with it: his dangling body was testimony enough to his guilt. _Grimes,_ who having given in to cowardice for the second time that night, had not only cheated the service of an exemplar of the fate of cowards, but violated his captain's _sanctum sanctorum_ with his corpse.

If death had not already taken Grimes, Bush would have reached through the Veil and done for the man himself. 

"I'll have that removed at once, if you please, Mr Bush," said Captain Hornblower, referring to the thing that had once been Grimes. There was something strained and wild about his eyes. "Put it over the side. Give it a burial, Christian burial, if you like."

"Aye aye, sir," replied Bush.

But removing the corpse would not be enough: Death's shade would linger in the cabin. Even the strongest mind would feel it. And Hornblower, Bush was already learning, was a sensitive and highly-strung captain. Brilliantly clever, scrupulously conscientious, a man men loved to follow — and yet for all his admirable qualities, not what Bush would call strong. Little things weighed on him, out of all measure to their import. And whatever had passed between captain and steward tonight had not been little. 

Once again, Bush chafed that Grimes was beyond punishment.

It was on Bush's tongue to offer his captain his own berth. Bush had little more than a screened-off cupboard to his name, but it was the next-best accommodation on the ship. And he had hours more work ahead of him; when he finally gave in to exhaustion, he could retort upon the officer of the watch for his berth. Or he could take the captain's cabin, and chase out any lingering spectre with his own brute presence. 

But Bush clamped his jaw: Hornblower sleeping out of his own cabin would excite comment throughout the ship, and the captain would not thank Bush for making his weakness so visible. Nor even, in truth, for noticing it at all. 

Hornblower gave Bush one long, bleak look, then turned, moving like a man doomed, for his chart room. Bush watched him go.

The door shut. 

Bush saw to his orders.

 

Grimes's body went overboard at seven bells, with the sun still low over the Toulinguet, and with no more ceremony than a few words from the prayer book. Grimes did not deserve a Christian burial — neither for his suicide, nor for his last act against the captain — but Bush knew it would come to haunt his captain if Grimes did not receive at least a few words. The hands swabbing the decks dry watched curiously, but had no audible comment for the lack of ceremony; by now, the whole ship knew Grimes to be a suicide. 

Just before eight bells the bosun drove up from below the night's shore party, still yawning and sluggish, to stow their hammocks. Two hours' sleep was little enough after an action, but Bush had no pity for them; they had slept during first watch, which was more sleep than he or the captain had seen. Bush himself felt gritty with exhaustion, but the rising sun had given him a second wind; he would be good for a few more hours, and the ship was still being set to rights after the night raid.

The captain did not appear on deck with the change in watch; whether he had managed to sleep or was working on his after action report, Bush did not know. 

A half hour later, the officers' schedule all askew, the gunroom steward notified Bush of breakfast.

"Have you seen to the captain?" Bush asked. He had assigned Bailey to Grimes's duties as well as his own until the captain's preferences for a new steward should be known.

"Sentry says he's still asleep, sir."

"Very good," Bush said, and went to breakfast.

The meal on the table was no more — but fortunately, no less — appetizing than it ever was. Its scent barely registered through Bush's fatigue; after two solid months on blockade at a forward station, not even the acquisitiveness of Huffnell, the purser, could do much to relieve the gunroom table's monotony. Nevertheless, Bailey always managed to bring an unimpressive meal just a little lower: this morning, Bush quickly discovered, Bailey had burnt the coffee. Bush would pity the captain for having newly become victim to Bailey's services, but by all accounts, Grimes had been no better a steward than Bailey. It was rare for Bush to miss the _Renown,_ but at least her stewards had been competent. Nor had they been given to especially aggressive forms of suicide.

"How is Mr Côtard?" Bush asked of Wallis, the surgeon, as he seated himself at table.

"We took the arm. Too early to know if he'll survive it."

"It's a pity," Bush said, and there were murmurs of agreement from around the table; they all knew the service had little use for a lieutenant who was missing a limb. Yet even knowing Côtard's fate did not ease Bush's lingering jealousy that Côtard had gone on the night raid at all.

There were footsteps overhead; at a nod from Bush, Bailey excused himself. A second set of footsteps above, a muffled curse. A scant minute later, Bailey returned to the gunroom and resumed serving. Bush frowned. 

"Is the captain awake? What are you doing here?"

"Yessir, he is, sir, but he didn't want help, and didn't want no breakfast," Bailey said, and Bush paused, fork halfway to his mouth. 

"He took coffee, at least?" he asked, misgiving in his stomach.

"No, sir. I was to take it away and damn my eyes, sir."

Hornblower enjoyed his coffee as he enjoyed few things — coffee, whist, and arcane new theories of navigation, by Bush's count — and to take no coffee this morning, after an all night mission and only a few hours of sleep… 

Bush remembered Hornblower, not a year since in the _Renown_ wardroom, his exhausted face bent over a closely cradled cup, the young man momentarily absent from the miseries of the world as he savoured its scent.

"Can't blame Horny, if this is what he had to look forward to," muttered Huffnell, with obvious distaste for the contents of his own cup.

Bush stood.

Where did this impulse toward protectiveness come from, Bush wondered, as he rifled through the wardroom stores, looking for a small oaken box. Was this the natural relation of a captain and his lieutenant, that the lieutenant should feel so keenly for his captain's state of mind? Or did this feeling unnaturally linger from the days when he and Hornblower had served as brother lieutenants, with Bush the soft-hearted elder, concerned for the welfare of his junior? Hornblower was a brilliant officer, already a fine commander, and yet he was still so very young.

"Whatever are you doing, Bush?" asked Wallis, the surgeon.

"Looking for the coffee," Bush said, finally finding the box. He opened it to count out twenty-five beans.

"That'll be waterier than even what Bailey makes," Huffnell said. "Or are you only making coffee for yourself? Selfish, I call that."

"It's for the captain. Bailey, what do you use to roast them?"

"Then shouldn't you be using the captain's stores?" 

"'Pardon me, Captain, but I'd like permission to enter your cabin to rifle your cabin stores,'" Bush mocked. "That would go over grandly, I'm sure."

"I doubt Horny even has any of his own left," Wallis observed. 

"Grimes's been blacking bread for Scotch coffee these past weeks, sir," Bailey volunteered as confirmation. 

"That's enough, Bailey," Bush rebuked the steward. He disliked open discussion of the captain's poverty, no matter how painfully obvious it was; to hear it discussed by a hand was even more offensive. He added, turning to Huffnell, "You may take it out of my share, if you must."

"No coffee for Mr Bush tomorrow," Huffnell instructed, but Wallis immediately protested.

"Oh, give over. Horny lost his steward last night. Walking in on that would put any man off his feed. If Mr Bush thinks he can get him to take a cup of coffee, that's little enough." 

Bush spared a smile for the surgeon. "Thank you, Dr Wallis." He shot a glare around the small table. "I'll see anyone who touches my breakfast at the gratings," he promised. "Come with me, Bailey."

 

Two bells had rung by the time Bush finished straining the captain's coffee. Mr Simmonds and his mate watched curiously, bemused by the lofty lieutenant disposing of used coffee grounds in the galley slop. Dr Wallis's mate in the orlop, too, had been surprised to see Bush begging for the use of a mortar and pestle. Bush could only presume that everyone believed the extended exercise in coffee-making was intended as a dressing-down for Bailey; the steward had certainly squirmed in humiliation as he followed Bush around the ship.

But Bush cared little for others’ opinions; what mattered was that the captain have a little comfort this morning, or as much as he might be persuaded to allow himself. A larger, more obvious gesture would be rejected out of hand, of that Bush was sure, but he was hopeful that Hornblower might accept something as small as a pot of properly brewed coffee — very possibly the only one on the ship.

"Now, make sure he actually drinks that," Bush ordered, as he entrusted the coffeepot to Bailey.

"Make _sure,_ sir?" Bailey asked, aghast.

Bailey was useless as a steward. "Don't let him send it away until you've come close enough for him to smell it. Open the lid, if need be, or pour him a cup straightaway when you enter." 

"Yes, sir." Bailey still seemed nervous. "With your compliments, sir?" His eyes were pleading; he evidently feared braving the captain's cabin after his earlier dismissal.

Bush took pity on him. "With my compliments." 

_You may tell him it's in exchange for a jug of lemonade,_ it was on the tip of his tongue to add, but the captain would dislike that; whatever mental shocks he had sustained the night before, both ashore and in his cabin, they would not compare in his mind to sabre wounds sustained in battle. To compare even the effects would be as good as suggesting a weakness in the captain — or so it might read to Hornblower, however little that suggestion had been intended.

Nevertheless, Bush was sure that he intended the coffee as Hornblower had once intended the lemonade: as a sincere and earnest attempt at succor. Bush still remembered the kindness of that unlooked-for jug of lemonade, and vividly. 

"With your compliments, sir," Bailey agreed, and bore the pot away. 

Bush returned to the gunroom for his breakfast, now congealed and cold; the few once-appealing bits had been thieved by his messmates. He was picking his way through the uninspiring remains when Bailey reappeared. 

"Did he take it?" Bush asked.

"Yes sir. He wasn't happy-like about it, but he took it," Bailey said, gathering the dirty plates of Bush's messmates.

"Good. You may clear mine away, too," he said, but saved back his cup, needing its strength to be able to continue through the morning. Its contents were cold now, even more unappetizing than when they had been hot. It didn't signify, however, not against the value of a good, hot cup for the captain.

 

When Bush returned to the deck, he put out the last call for letters for England; he likewise saw to the state of the ship's boats, so that all would be in order when Hornblower was ready to send his report to the _Tonnant._ Just after four bells, the lookout called Bush's attention to a parade of French generals and engineers on shore, coming to view the night's damage at Petit Minou. Bush went down to the captain's cabin to request Hornblower's presence on deck to witness the same. In his excitement over possible impending action, Bush barely registered Bailey in the doorway, the steward wedged sideways to protect the empty coffee service he carried. Hornblower took another few moments to finish a line of his report, but consented to come on deck. For one delicious moment as they stood at the rail together, Bush thought it certain that Hornblower would choose to set loose a broadside among all that gold lace — oh, killing a general would be a fine chance! But Hornblower declined action, and Bush tried not to gaze wistfully at the procession on Petit Minou. It seemed an affront to the dignity of the service that the Frogs should ride so boldly within cannon-shot of the water, without a thought for the King's ship just offshore.

Bush expected Hornblower to go below again, but the captain lingered on the quarterdeck; Bush yielded the weather rail to him. Hornblower still looked weary, burdened by care, but at least he had lost that brittle, hunted look of the night before. He studied the trim of the yards, looked into the binnacle, turned his gaze around the deck. Bush discreetly marked the successive targets of Hornblower's attention, waiting for his captain's judgement. 

"Mr Bush," Hornblower said, and Bush joined his captain. 

"Sir."

"Please thank the gunroom for the loan of Bailey this morning. I trust it wasn't too great an inconvenience."

"Not at all, sir." 

"That coffee was the only good cup I've had since I came aboard the _Hotspur."_

Bush felt a swell of pleasure. "I'm glad to hear it, sir." 

"Are you indeed?" There was a hard note to Hornblower's voice that Bush couldn't explain.

"Sir?"

"I'd hate to think that the gunroom has been hoarding the only decent steward aboard."

"Sir!" Bush protested. It was difficult to imagine they were discussing Bailey's meagre talents; if Bailey was superior to the late Grimes, it could only be in that Bailey had not yet hung himself from the wardroom lantern hook. "I can't in conscience recommend Bailey's services, but I'll reassign him now, if you wish."

But Hornblower was not finished. "Just as I would hate to hear," he continued, still with that hard note in his voice, "that my lieutenant had been skulking below-decks, doing the work of a steward."

Bush was dumbstruck with dismay.

"Do you hear me, Mr Bush?"

"Aye aye, sir." Bush could no more have kept the misery from his voice than the setting sun from the sea.

"I rely on you for many things, Mr Bush. A decent cup of coffee is not one of them. I need to know that you're attending to _Hotspur's_ needs, not mine."

"Aye aye, sir." No other response was possible.

"For example, just now…" Hornblower turned an icy eye around the ship, and Bush waited, burning with silent shame. "Just now I see that my lieutenant is exhausted, not having been to bed since the night before last."

"Sir?" Bush blinked, struggling to catch up. Of course he had not slept. He had been needed all day yesterday for the logistics of the action: to welcome and berth Lieutenant Côtard, to receive and hide the additional marines, to seize the lobster boat and secure it and its crew, to prepare the ship's boats for the raid, to arm the shore party. He had had further responsibilities during the action itself: command of the _Hotspur,_ preparations for the shore party's return, contingencies in case Hornblower himself had fallen. And then there had been all the aftermath: the wounded, the repairs to the boats, the proper stowage of matériel… And Grimes, of course. And not one jot of that had excused him from the normal business of the ship's day. He understood his captain's rebuke over having stolen time from the _Hotspur_ to make his captain a pot of coffee — he understood that rebuke and felt it keenly — but this rebuke he did not understand at all.

"Mr Prowse has the watch," Hornblower continued, "and is perfectly competent to stand it. You should have been asleep hours ago. You hardly look fit for duty."

 _"Sir,"_ Bush protested, deeply unhappy at the imputation. He had been longing for a catnap, it was true, but he would be fit until he dropped, and that would not be for a good many more hours yet. He had planned to steal a few hours' sleep during the afternoon watch, if duties permitted, after the captain had sent in his report and the noon sightings were finished.

"Mr Prowse can call a boat for me to send my report to the _Tonnant._ I order you to get some sleep now before you need to be back on deck at noon." 

Again, there was nothing to be said; his captain's wishes were unequivocal. "Aye aye, sir," he said, biting back his disquiet at having disappointed his captain. He turned to leave the quarterdeck.

"Mr Bush," Hornblower said, and Bush turned back. With a gesture of his head, he indicated that Bush should come near, and then he spoke low, so that none of the other officers on the quarterdeck might hear. "Admiral Cornwallis had some concern, when I first asked for you as my lieutenant, that you might chafe under my command, I having so recently been your junior on the _Renown."_

"Sir," Bush began, horrified by the suggestion. He had disliked receiving the reprimand, it was true, but he hoped he had not been sulky about it. "I hope I have never given you cause—" He stopped when Hornblower held up a hand.

"I couldn't imagine any such thing of you, and told Admiral Cornwallis so."

"Thank you, sir," Bush said, heartfelt.

"And I was correct in my estimation; you've been as willing as I could want in these two months."

"Serving under you has been a privilege, sir." Outfitting the _Hotspur,_ training up her crew, making Hornblower's visions a reality: it had all been deeply satisfying work. He had served on much grander ships than this little sloop, and yet the intimacy of the _Hotspur,_ the criticality of her mission, the privilege of being his captain's right hand… And not just any captain, but this one in particular. It had been a source of great pride to him.

Hornblower had a queer smile now; he looked at the deck and rocked once on his toes. "But what I never imagined, Mr Bush, was that you might be _too_ willing." 

"Yes, sir," Bush said, confused by the charge.

"I may be the captain, but I'm an officer of the King, just as you are. Hardship's our lot."

Bush felt strongly that hardship should be less so for a captain, but he thought he understood now, Hornblower's queer pride that drove him more relentlessly than he drove his officers. "As is bad coffee, sir," he suggested.

Hornblower cracked a grin, and for an instant he was only the young, eager officer Bush had known on the _Renown,_ shy and terribly clever, wanting so badly to do his duty and do it well. "I trust it needn't always be so hard as _that,_ " Hornblower said, and Bush forgot himself so far as to smile. 

"No, sir. Only when we can actually _get_ coffee, sir," he said, and Hornblower laughed. 

"Get some sleep, Mr Bush. I rely on you, and I need your best. I can't have it if it's not there to be had."

"Aye aye, sir," Bush said, more at peace than he had been at any other point during the interview.

"Don't misunderstand me, Mr Bush," Hornblower said quietly, and the shyness of his smile warmed Bush through. "It was a fine cup of coffee."

"It was my pleasure, sir," Bush said.

Hornblower nodded, and raised his chin. "Mr Prowse! I require Mr Foreman and a boat for the _Tonnant."_

"Aye aye, sir," Prowse acknowledged, and called for the quarter boat to be cleared away.

Bush went to bed.


End file.
